The Taste of Chocolate Chips
by Emmy-loo
Summary: A baking disaster can have consequences that reach far beyond the kitchen, as Ian Rider discovers.


Written for MadMogg, for Spy Fest '09! (If you don't know what that is, I honestly don't know how I could explain it--look it up :D) MM--I hop you liked it!

* * *

They offered him a car. He refused, just as they had known he would. After missions (and especially after missions like the one he had just had), he liked to walk through London. To watch the mothers pushing babies in pushcarts; the teenagers smoke and push one another on the corners. To feel the chilly mist and occasional raindrop hit his face. To remind himself that this great, sprawling city was home.

At times, Ian felt like a deep sea diver. There was his life on land, which was vibrant and loud, but there was also his underwater life—his missions. On missions the colours were muted, and the landscape was foreign and strange. And, of course, there was always the risk of death at a stupid mistake. That made the entirety of London his decompression chamber. The walk from the bank to Chelsea was how he adjusted himself back to normal life—life with paperwork, football games and burnt food, instead of adrenaline rushes, high speed chases and fights to the death.

Ian ignored the black sedan following him. The first time he had been angry, but he understood now. They just wanted to see him home. It was their compromise—they wouldn't insist on driving him back up to Chelsea, and he wouldn't make a fuss about his escorts. And anyway, knowing that he had security allowed him to relax—to reuse his analogy, it was the equivalent of having a buddy on a dive, someone who could watch his back. He didn't have to look over his shoulders every few moments, making sure that no one was tailing him.

Of course, he did it anyway, but it was nice to have that extra reassurance.

He wrapped his jacket tightly around his middle, breathing in the fog. After the oppressive and dry heat of Kenya, it was more than welcome. The air tasted like home.

Following the familiar streets, he was approaching the familiar address by noon. He took the steps two at a time and paused at the door, nodding to the sedan that was now idling in the tiny driveway. The glass was tinted too darkly for him to see the driver, but after a moment the car pulled out. Ian dug deeply in his pocket for his spare key, which he was sure he had stowed there earlier, but before his fingers clenched around it, the door swung open.

"Ian!"

His nephew slammed into him with all of the force of a hurricane, making Ian bite his tongue and clench his jaw at the pressure on his still-bruised ribs.

"Hey Alex." He tousled Alex's hair—it was getting much too long—and smiled down at him. It was then that he noticed the white, powdery substance coating his nephew from head to foot. He lifted his hand and saw that it was on his hand as well. It almost looked like flour, but Ian knew better. Jack didn't bake, and Alex was much too young to do it himself.

Alex seemed to sense the question forming on Ian's lips. "We're, uh, making a cake!"

"A cake." It wasn't a question. It was a confirmation of impending disaster.

Alex grinned. "Yeah! Jack found a recipe in one of the cookbooks on the shelf and she wanted to try it, cos tomorrow's her birthday."

Ian let his nephew see none of his alarm. He had completely forgotten about Jack's birthday, though she'd spoken of little else before he'd left. What exactly did a man buy the nanny-slash-housekeeper-slash-member-of-the-family for her birthday? "Somehow I get the feeling that making a cake was a very bad idea."

Alex didn't say anything, but his grin was wide. He turned back into the house, where Jack was waiting. Ian had to catch his breath. Even covered in flour—and she was coated in it more thoroughly than Alex was, which was saying something—she seemed to glow. She was leaning against the doorjamb, watching their reunion with a smile. At second glance, though, Ian saw that the smile wasn't as peaceful as he had first thought. There was something tense about the set of her jaw; something forced about the way her lips curved upward.

For the moment, he let it be.

Alex grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the kitchen, where Jack had started to stir some...concoction. Alex stood on his tiptoes, toward Ian's ear. "You're gonna have to help. Jack's nice and all, but she has _no idea_ what she's doing."

Jack spun around, her crimson hair following a second later. "I heard that!" She pointed the batter-covered mixers at him with a scowl on her face. Ian had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing out loud. "I'll have you know that this will be the best cake you've ever had the pleasure of eating, young man! And besides," she lowered her voice into a whisper, shooting a glance at Ian and looking conspiratorially at Alex, "if you keep insulting my cooking, you won't get to lick the bowl clean when I'm done."

Alex looked stricken. "Yes ma'am, right away ma'am!" He clambered next to Jack and took over stirring the mixture.

Jack turned to Ian. Her face was no longer bright, but was instead blank. Her jaw was clenched tightly. "We need to talk," she mouthed to him, when Alex turned the electric mixer on.

Ian's heart sank. By now he knew the cycle. Housekeepers only lasted for so long. It never took long for them to grow tired of Ian's constant "business trips." Jack had lasted the longest, he had to give that to her—nearly two years now—but he knew what was coming. She would interrogate him; make him feel guilty. Then she would mention her love of Alex; how he was such a darling child. But then, with sad eyes, she would tell him that she had to move on with her life; that she needed to find a new job. Ian understood.

But still. He _liked_ Jack.

* * *

After the three of them had finally rid themselves of their flour coatings—Ian had somehow ended up with just as much as Jack and Alex—and Alex had finally gone to bed, Ian followed Jack to the sitting room, where she, well...sat. Ian sat opposite her, watching as she grabbed a pillow and pulled it onto her lap, where she fidgeted with it nervously. He leaned back in his seat, waiting.

After a moment, she spoke. Rather, she sighed. "Ian, when are you going to tell me the truth?"

He stiffened imperceptibly. "Excuse me?"

She waved her hand impatiently. "Oh, you know what I'm talking about." She leaned forward in her seat, her eyes nearly glowing. "What do you _really_ do?"

Ian scrunched his brow. "I'm the overseas manager for the Royal and General Bank," he said slowly, watching something flash across her face.

She squeezed the pillow tightly, her fingers clenching and unclenching. "Do _not_," she said, annunciating every syllable in that American way of hers, "lie to me." She stood, letting the pillow fall the floor. Her hands were in fists. "I'm not a child, Ian. I'm not fooled by your stories. I'm not fooled by the makeup you put on over your bruises—" At this Ian must have shown his surprise, because Jack laughed once, bitterly—"Oh yes Ian, I can see it. No one ever really taught you the right way to put it on, did they?" She shook her head. "Never mind. That's not important right now."

She sat back down, leaning back in the chair. "I can see you flinch when someone hits one of your injuries. I saw it when Alex ran at you today. I can see you limp while you're recovering from some kind of foot injury. Now, Ian, are you going to tell me what it is that you do, or am I going to have to guess? Because I'm _very good_ at seeing these things. I've been around undercover cops my entire life. My dad was one, you know. My brother is now too. The signs are all the same. Bruises. A tendency to change the subject whenever personal topics come up. A...let's say 'lacking' social life."

She took a deep breath and leaned her head back on the couch, so that her eyes now stared at the ceiling. Her pale neck was exposed, the curve going down until it reached her collarbone, at which point Ian forced himself to look at her face. "I'm not asking you to tell me everything, Ian. I know you can't." Her voice softened. "I guess I just want to know if I'm right."

She looked up again, her face hopeful. Ian stared into her eyes—such a sparkling shade of hazel—and was speaking before he had time to realize it. "You're right."

Another something flashed across Jack's face. "I _knew _it," she whispered, presumably to herself. Another moment passed, and Ian found that he had to force his fingers loose of the chair's arms, where they had been gripping so tightly they were stiff.

Suddenly, Jack straightened. "All right. All right." Her eyes were on Ian again—but this time they weren't pleading. Now they looked downright _calculating_. "A few conditions, so that—"

"Hold on a second! _Conditions_? What _for_?" It was a testament to how long he had been Alex's guardian that Ian's yells came out in a whisper. He didn't want to wake Alex.

Jack smirked. "Well you wouldn't want this secret to get out, would you?"

Ian's mouth fell open. He snapped it shut quickly, but his brain was still several seconds behind. The room was silent for a moment more. When Ian spoke again, it was in a deadly whisper. "If you intend to blackmail me, Miss Starbright, I assure you it will not end well."

Hurt flashed across Jack's face, as easily visible as her shaking fingers. "No! Not blackmail, Ian. I just...." She let out a deep breath and hung her head in her hands. Ian barely heard her next words. "It sounds so _stupid_ now."

His mood suddenly and bewilderingly transformed from angry to apologetic. He stood from his chair and made his way around the coffee table to her. Her head was still in her hands. To his eternal dismay, he could see that her top was stained with tears. Against his instincts Ian kneeled, putting one hand on her knee. She didn't react. He took his other hand and cupped her chin, bringing her eyes to his. "Jack."

Her chin wobbled. "Jack, I'm sorry I yelled. I...well, to be honest I should know you better by now. You wouldn't do something like that."

Jack took a deep breath. "Damn right I wouldn't," she said strongly, though her voice was still shaky.

Ian removed his hands but remained kneeling. "I _am _curious, though, about what you were going to say."

Jack's blush was immediate and nearly all-encompassing. She took another deep breath and closed her eyes. "It sounds stupid now, but I had it all planned out in my head."

Ian took Jack's hand. "I promise I won't laugh," he told her solemnly.

She let out a snort and opened her eyes. "All right. It's just for Alex, you understand? I know I've only been here a year and a half, but Alex is the little brother I never had. I just want the best for him."

Ian had to resist the childish urge to amend her statement. That was all _he_ wanted for his nephew.

She continued without taking a breath. "I won't tell Alex what it is you do—even though I think he should know—if you let me do a few things for you."

Ian blinked. "Is that all?"

Jack rolled her eyes. "'Things' in this case being a few things. Number one—and this one is important—you let me help you the best I can when you come back bruised and broken."

"Erm," Ian interrupted, but Jack wasn't having it. She put a finger on his lips, shushing him. Ian felt as if his lip was on fire.

"I'm not done yet," she said with a twinkle in her eyes. "Number two: you agree not to push yourself too hard when you _are_ home. This means fewer rock-climbing excursions; all that shit."

Ian tried to get out "But Alex _loves_ rock-climbing," but Jack had yet to remove her finger.

"Still not done," she sang. "Now, the last part is the most important." She took a deep breath and finally removed her finger from his lips. To Ian, they suddenly felt extremely sensitive. "Three: you have to let me ki—"

Ian didn't let her finish. His lips were on hers, the fire that he had felt moments ago now doubled. She tasted like chocolate chips.

When they finally parted, Jack's eyes were wide. Ian's heart sped up, hoping he hadn't just ruined something very large. "Three...you have to let me kiss you."


End file.
